annals of (re)reading

I'm sure you will all be thrilled to learn that one of my book clubs is still going strong. Using the word "club" to describe it may be a misnomer, actually—it's just me and my friend Ashley meeting up occasionally to talk about books. The whole thing nearly petered last year due to a bad book selection; we tried and failed to read Don Quixote and didn't meet for six months because we both stubbornly refused to concede defeat. When we saw each other for other reasons during that time we would just whine about how much we hated the book and gleefully confess to each other all the other things we'd read.

(And in case you're wondering, the other book club I was in died a quick death for me when someone who went only once (but was still on the email list) insisted that we shouldn't be reading so many books by white men. But that's...another story.)

Ashley and I just finished The Moviegoer by Walker Percy (we didn't love it), and before that we read Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders (we loved it). Our chats about the assigned reading are very enjoyable, of course, but I've found that decisions about what to read next are often the best part of being in this book "club," because we both read a lot and that means we just end up talking about books in general. Case in point: we spent a good half hour last time we met talking about Brideshead Revisited, which Ashley had just finished reading and which has long been a favorite of mine.

Talking about the book with her, I realized I needed to at least skim through it again: I had a definite memory of what it was about but I couldn't recall most of the details. So I came home, dug out my copy, and started rereading. A few days later I'd finished the whole book, and I realized two things: 1) it was way, way better than I remembered, and 2) I hadn't understood it at all the first time.

I actually have no memory of when I first read Brideshead, but I do know for sure that my mother recommended it to me and that I didn't read her copy, which means I must have bought it myself, and the earliest I would have done that was my first year in college (15 years ago, bah!). One thing I know for sure is that I must have read it before 2010, because by then I would have certainly realized that the central theme of the book is Catholicism, and I definitely missed that on the first reading. (I'm certain my mother, who spent 12 years in Catholic school, did not miss that in her reading.)

How I could possibly profess to have read and enjoyed this novel without understanding the religious themes is frankly ridiculous to me. Julia of ten years ago may not have been very smart, which I guess is not altogether surprising: she did, after all, start this blog.

The experience of rereading Brideshead was a little like having an encounter between me now and the me of 10 years ago, which is a strange and uncomfortable experience. I've done it before: rereading The Republic in grad school with all my college marginalia was definitely like having a frustrating conversation with a dumber version of myself. But the space of time was shorter in that scenario: just 4 years between readings as opposed to 10, and it felt much less disconcerting to learn that I'd misread The Republic, which I never really felt I understood, than that I'd misread a novel I loved and thought I got the gist of.

While it's encouraging to know that I've learned something in the past 10 years, it's disheartening to realize that I now need to go back and reread my favorite books from pre-2010 to make sure I understood what the heck I was reading. It's going to take a while.  

An Open Letter to Tourists and Interns on the DC Metro

Dear Tourists and Interns on the DC Metro,

I hate to be cruel, but frankly: I wish you would all return to whatever suburban prairie or college town you came from. Why must you be here, on my train, plaguing my daily commute? Do you see me snarling your freeway traffic? Do I come to your town and occupy 10 spots in the strip mall parking lot? No, I don't mess up your transportational life, so why must you blight mine? If do you insist on staying here, Tourists and Interns on the DC Metro, then please, please, learn how to ride a subway.

This is the mistake that you make: you think that there's nothing to learn! You think that correct subway etiquette isn't a skill. I am here to inform you that you are incorrect. I have three solid decades of subway experience: I began my studies on the New York subway at age two; I currently ride the subway every single day during rush hour; I've ridden subways in Chicago, Moscow, London, Tokyo, Singapore, Delhi, Paris, even Philadelphia. I'm a goddamn expert.

So, Tourists and Interns on the DC Metro, here is my public service announcement: Julia's Rules of Subway Etiquette:

1. Do not stand directly in front of the door when boarding: stand to the side and give those exiting some room. If you are standing in front of the door when I'm exiting, I will walk straight into you as though you don't exist.  And I can do this because to me...you will simply not exist. 
2. Do not dally in the doorway when entering the train car. There is no need to hesitate: simply enter the train and go anywhere (anywhere!) there is space. If you dally in the doorway while I'm trying to enter, I will push you from behind, and possibly step on your foot. And I will not apologize, even when you say to me, "you stepped on my foot!" Yes, I stepped on your foot: your foot was not moving your body forward as it ought to have been.  
3. Do not lean your entire body against any pole in a subway car. A pole is not for your personal bodily use, it is for everyone standing within arms reach. You should take up no more room on a subway pole than the width of one hand. If you lean against the pole, I will force my hand against your arm, thigh, head, or any other body part touching said pole, and proceed to poke you forcefully. 
4. Do not keep your backpack on while on a crowded train. I repeat: DO NOT KEEP YOUR BACKPACK ON WHILE ON A CROWDED TRAIN. Use some common sense: there is more space between your legs than between you and the person next to you. If you keep your backpack on anywhere in my vicinity, I will use every excuse to brush against the zippers on your bag and make you think I'm trying to rob you. I will be convincing. I may even rob you. 
5. Do not enter the car, look around, and loudly proclaim you had "no idea it would be this crowded," and "isn't there a seat available somewhere?" If no one got up for that pregnant lady standing next to you, no one on earth is going to get up for you. 
6. Do not ask the person sitting next to you when your stop is coming up. The person sitting next to you is not a map. The map is on the wall. Can you read? 
7. Do not look anyone in the eye. The only way to get through a daily commute in close quarters with fifty strangers is by protecting the illusion of privacy. If someone is looking at me while I'm sweaty and tired and annoyed, I cannot pretend that fifty strangers aren't watching me be sweaty and tired and annoyed. If you look me in the eye, I will look right back at you, and roll my eyes. 
8. Do not brush your reading material (phone, iPad newspaper, book, parchment, scroll) against anyone's arm, face, chest, or any other body part. If there are two inches between you and the human standing next to you, then your reading material is eliminating their one inch of personal space. READ LATER. 
9. Do not get up and move toward the exit until the train has stopped. Subway trains aren't big: you can be in the furthest corner hedged in by six linebackers and still get to the door in time. If you do try to push your way forward while the train is still moving, you will make everyone shift around, let go of their poles, and fall into each other. And when you get to me, I will just ignore you and make you stare at my armpit until the train doors open. 
10. Do not pretend that you can balance without holding on to something. I can't and you can't, so don't. Just hold on to something, look off vaguely into the middle distance, and try not to mess it up for the rest of us.

If I haven't inspired you to start taking an uber to your destination, then I guess...I'll see you on the train. 

Curmudgeonly yours, 

Julia

a real adult

Recently, someone told me that she doesn't feel like a "real adult" because she is single and childless. To be clear, this is a complaint: she would like to have a husband and children, but has neither, and feels, in her own words, "inadequate." She believes herself to be "behind schedule" on the checklist that women of my acquaintance torture themselves with: college, career, husband, house, kids, to be completed in that order and achieved by...oh, right now.

Due to moral failure and general cold-heartedness, I have limited sympathy for complaints like this. The complainant just wants to complain: there is absolutely nothing I can say to make her feel better (trust me, I know, I've tried). She's playing a dangerous game, though, because one day I might crack and tell her what really I think, and she really doesn't want to hear it. Because this is what I think: I think it's quite possible she may never get married and she may never have kids. I think it's quite possible that she may get married and have kids and hate every minute of it. I think it's quite possible that none of us get what we deserve, and that life is an unmitigated and unfathomable pain in the ass.

She may also regret complaining to me because one day I'm going to ask her to explain just who, exactly, qualifies as a real adult. Not just an adult, a real adult! Am I a real adult only because I'm married? A semi-real adult because I'm married but have no children? And if I never have children, will I remain in this state of semi-adulthood, or will advanced age eventually get me admitted to the club? I know a lovely person who has never been married and never had children, and is about to retire: shall I inform her that, despite all signs to the contrary, she has not yet reached adulthood?

Someone once told me that a real friend is someone who lets you use their toothbrush. Perhaps a real adult is someone who buys a toothbrush when they need one? All I know for sure is that nothing makes you a real adult, nothing—not marriage, not children, not a PhD, not a million dollar salary, not divorce, not age, not retirement—except acting like one. You are an adult when other people's life choices do not immediately make you feel insecure. You are an adult when someone tells you you're being an asshole and you can totally see their point. You are an adult when you realize that no one is out to get you. You are an adult when you recommend your favorite book to a friend and they dislike it so much they don't even finish it, but you can still admit they have good taste. You are an adult when it's a beautiful summer day and by some miracle you have the rooftop pool all to yourself, and instead of needing friends or kids or a husband to confirm that you should be feeling happy, you just think: this is all I've ever wanted.